


Fly Into My Heart Like a Butterfly, Sting Love Into Me Like a Bee

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8185831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Kyungsoo hadn't been there for the hiring process, but they'd assured Kyungsoo that he'd love Jongdae. (camp counselor with tiny campers au)





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: referenced homophobia and baby queer self-discovery, campsite frottage, drive-by ksoo x minah, minseok x changmin, kris x jessica mentions(, this being my least favorite chenpionships submission)
> 
> title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QB4dQcxgJPY)

Kyungsoo is sticky, sweaty, slightly dizzy on sunscreen fumes and the steady thrum of cicadas in the trees. Overall, completely and utterly _miserable_ beneath the noon-heavy sun, he’s dressed in his employee-issue neon green t-shirt, pressed khakis, and he wipes forlornly at his forehead, awaits his Reckoning, the damnation of An Entire Three Weeks Wasted Here. And it is a waste, even if he _is_ “building character,” padding his resume, earning “good” money, getting himself Out There and helping his family out in the process, too, he knows they need it, and he is a good son, knows how to be responsible and honor his duties, especially since Seungsoo can't help them out this year, what with his summer courses at university and new girlfriend, he’s so busy and has so much to occupy his time now, but Kyungsoo doesn’t, and this is _good_ , see isn’t it funny how life works out this way sometimes. 

It isn’t—funny _or_ good, but really Kyungsoo only has himself to blame. Well, his parents to a certain degree for _asking_ , but really, mostly himself, his stupidly blank planner, his awful inability to ever say “no.” Even if it is “only” a three weeks. Even if they aren’t even asking him to stay the full-term—like, like they’d done last time. 

Swallowing a grimace, Kyungsoo fixes the name tag on his chest, plasters a fake, but charming enough smile on his face as he watches the children—assorted ages, heights, capabilities, interests—stumble out of the first green school bus. 

He only has 5 this time, his mother had smiled. 

And Kyungsoo’s already cleaned their cabin, decorated it, too, assigned their bunks, checked the fire extinguishers and the mosquito repellants, and upon Minah’s prompting even bought them a candy bar a piece because it will _endear_ him, make up for all the grouchiness hiding beneath that fake smile. She’d pinched his cheek, made it a _real_ smile before telling him that if he needed any help, he knew where she was, but she honestly thought he could _handle_ it. She believed in him, Kyunggie. 

And he honestly probably can. 

They’re all Age Group 2, age 10 to 12. Quiet ones, his mother had made sure. They won’t make as much of a fuss, cause any sort of ruckus. They’ll probably work harder, too. Be more willing to go to classes, participate in events, put on a better performance during their ending Talent Show. 

The first time he’d done this, the last time he’d done this, they had been Age Group 1, age 7 to 9, to Kyungsoo’s 16. A boy had thrown up on him. Another had wet the bed. They’d all been so loud, so energetic, so very much to handle, and Kyungsoo too ill-equipped to deal with them. 

This is better at least. Older kids mean less potential body fluids. Less messy feelings to wrangle with. They are campers that are more fully _human_.

And yeah, he decides, squaring his shoulders, trying not to grimace too hard as the movement causes more sweat to drip down his back. 

In his periphery, he can see the other counselors. Some of them are holding up signs. Some of them even have glitter, and yeah, that would probably be a better idea. That way he doesn’t have to be unnecessarily approached by random groups of children. 

It’s too late for that. 

He sighs again louder, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Minah tug off her visor to fan her face. 

But it’ll be fine. His kids can read, should be smart enough—he decides—to use process of elimination and find him. 

 

They are. Had even sat together on the bus, a soft-voiced one, Tae—something with a Tae—informs Kyungsoo, sticking together, so that they’d be able to find him easier, as soon as they got off the bus. “Taekwoon,” he clarifies, offering a handshake after adjusting the thick black strap on his canvas backpack. 

“I also asked my Mom to email for a picture,” another boy says, offering his hand, too. “My name is Minseok.” 

Lu Han and Jongin manage to introduce themselves, with softer, shyer handshakes, before the bus driver is booming about them claiming their bags, quickly before they got lost in the pile. 

Lu Han, a small one—the smallest one, cutest one with his disconcertingly bright, round eyes—waddles, strains as he attempts to tug his own bag, and Kyungsoo takes pity and helps him, smarting only the slightest at the weight. 

The others can manage, and Kyungsoo guides, they follow silent. 

Minseok—chubby-cheeked, sharp eyed, small but apparently strong enough to carry his own duffel bag without fuss—pauses at his bunk as soon as they reach the cabin. Minseok Kim, Kyungsoo remembers. 2 years of piano with a private tutor. Interested in taking vocal lessons, too. His elective class is Vocal Tech. His interview tape, his application form had stated, showed promise. 

“I can’t eat this,” Minseok says softly, maybe even sadly as he drops his duffle bag, sits on his bed. He’s cradling the Crunch bar on his lap, his cheek dragging over the rungs of his bunk bed’s stairs as he watches Kyungsoo. His eyes are so big and angled, and it’s more than vaguely unnerving. 

“You aren’t allergic,” Kyungsoo says. “I checked your file.” 

He checks again, discreet, peeking at the manila envelope photocopies he has of their application forms. No allergies this year, but Yifan Wu really won't eat seafood and Jongin hates carrots.

“I know,” Minseok says, nodding placidly, and his voice is patient like maybe he’s had to explain this a couple hundred times. He probably—Kyungsoo decides— _has_. “But my mom says I’m not allowed to eat sweets. Diabetes runs in my family on my dad’s side, and there’s no use in risking it for a momentary thrill. It’s just sugar and empty calories.”

And wow, poor kid. 

Lu Han, Taekwoon, Jongin have all stopped in their unpacking to look at him, pitying like they also—

“I have—um—trail mix?” 

Minseok shakes his head. “Too much salt and probably lots of chocolate. It’s okay. My mom packed me some celery and string cheese.” 

Oh _fuck_ , poor kid. 

Lu Han makes grabby hands, and Minseok lobs it in his direction before collapsing back onto the mattress with a drawn out sigh, limbs starfishing. His feet can't even reach the end of the mattress.

Another kid, twelve like the others, but incongruously tall, already nearly Kyungsoo’s height, pauses as he looms over Minseok’s bunk, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the floor. He reminds Kyungsoo vaguely of a puppy with his comically stern face, young eyes, too long, too clumsy limbs.

Yifan. 

Yifan Wu, three years of piano, two of violin, one of flute, 6 months of saxophone, another 6 of cello—a bumbling kid being forced into several instruments until he finds his right fit, Kyungsoo had decided. He'd be either overeager or burnt-out, in either case difficult. 

And already, he's frowning. 

“Yifan?” Kyungsoo tries, and Yifan frowns again. Deeper. His eyebrows are really too fucking thick for a kid his age, meeting thick and dark in the middle of his wrinkled forehead. 

“I don’t—” His brows furrow further. “Yifan. I don’t like it. That’s my name, yeah. But it’s so—My friends call me Kris. Kris with a K. It’s just, you know, my mom didn’t let me use it on my application form, because she said it’s not as good as Yifan. But I don’t _like_ Yifan.”

“Do you want me to change your name tag?” Kyungsoo tries. “Want us to call you Kris?”

Yifan—Kris—nods vehemently, seems to remember himself and murmurs something rushed about how thankful he is that Kyungsoo is offering. 

“My mom doesn’t—doesn’t let me use my school name either,” Minseok says, twisting to peer up at him. Jongin, Lu Han, Taekwoon nod understandingly. “It’s Michael. Mikey.” 

“Oh, do you also want me to—?”

Minseok shakes his head. “My parents didn’t name me Mikey. They named me Minseok. That’s my name.” 

Standing by the stairs, still, Kris is frowning—still, and Kyungsoo swallows the sigh crawling up his throat. 

The kid deserves a chance, a chance to be annoying. He’s just a kid. He just came here to have a good time. He just came here because he loves music. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and Kris shakes his head. “I’m scared if I get top, that I’ll hit my head.”

“I’ll trade,” Minseok offers. He pauses as he hefts his duffle bag on his shoulder, prepares to climb the stairs. He turns to Kyungsoo. “If I fall, I won’t die, right?”

 

Lunch is grilled cheese, a fruit salad, fries, refreshments from the refreshment table, and Kyungsoo picks a table near the windows, the sun warm on his skin as he watches the other campers and counselors file in. 

Minah is guiding her girls now—Irene, Amber, Jessica, Tiffany, Wendy. She’s incongruously pretty and radiant with her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail and her entire face wrinkled with her smile. Kyungsoo smiles back at her, and she spares him a squeeze to the shoulder before guiding her campers to the table across from theirs. 

Kris startles when they pass him. Then, lip pulled between his teeth, he looks longingly after them. His eyebrows are furrowed again, and he stirs forlornly at his fruit salad, spork dragging along the hard orange plastic of his tray. His gaze has fixated on one girl, tragic and yearning in that singular fascination of puppy love sort of way. 

His eyes glaze over, and Jongin and Lu Han bite back laughter at the sight.

Kyungsoo watches him watch her for three, four beats.

“If you try really hard,” Kyungsoo tries. “I mean if you do well in the talent show and participate in all the music activities, she might notice you.”

Yifan turns bright red, flushed to the ears and throat, but doesn’t respond. He stirs faster, faster, faster, eyes on his food now, shoulders hunched and fingers tense. 

Kyungsoo doesn’t attempt to revive the conversation. He _tried_ , he reasons. He can feel Lu Han’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t attempt to start that conversation at all. He swallows three gulps of his sandwich before the boy works up the courage to speak first. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he finally asks. 

“No,” he says, and Lu Han huffs. 

They finish the rest of their meal in relative silence. 

 

Afterwards, they’re treated to a Kyungsoo-led tour of the grounds—the lake, the “big room” auditorium where they’ll hold most of the concerts and events, the dining hall, the girls’ cabins, the boys’, the health and recreation center, the infirmary, the bike path, the showers and bathrooms, the lost and found, the laundry facilities, the information center, the supervisor cabins, the basketball and tennis courts. 

There’s a cooler of popsicles and Capri Sun juice pouches on one of the benches by the basketball courts, a scattered handful of tennis rackets, a basketball, two tennis balls.

They aren’t the only group there. Group 2 and 3 boys and girls are both spread across the courts. A group playing basketball, another throwing frisbees. Two boys are setting up the tennis net. 

Kris, Lu Han, Minseok, Jongin join the basketball game. Taekwoon collapses beside Kyungsoo to watch. They call it at 30 to 25, Kris’ team winning. Kyungsoo, Taekwoon, the other people on the sidelines including the girls—the girl that had caught Kris’ attention—cheer. 

Sweaty and grinning, Kris stumbles back to the benches, Minseok, Lu Han, Jongin following behind him. 

The losing team—Jongdae’s, Chanyeol’s boys—cheer amongst themselves, too. Chanyeol pulls his boys into a sweaty, laughing hug. It’s their second year with him, and they hug him back. Jongdae, a first year, his first year—first hours with these boys, too—pulls his boys into a hug, too, then pulls back. They perform some special handshake, several claps, snaps, a punch, a wiggle of fingers. 

Kyungsoo offers his campers Otterpops instead. 

Lips stained synthetic blue, green, red, purple, orange, they watch the girls play next. Kris is once more transfixed. 

 

“Have you ever _had_ a girlfriend,” Lu Han asks at dinner. It’s lasagna, garlic bread, a garden salad. Kris looks even worse now, after the popsicles and basketball game, all sad and pathetic and piney. It's only been since lunch time since he's fallen for her, and there is so much longing in his comically solemn face. 

Kyungsoo swallows around his mouthful of lasagna. “Yes.” He had. When he’d still thought it was a matter of trying hard enough, wanting it hard enough. 

Kris tears his eyes away at that. “How did you—?”

“I talked to her...Sat next to her during the campfire, asked her to dance, dedicated my last concert performance to her.” 

Kris’s face pinches, and Kyungsoo swallows a tight laugh. 

“Do you want a girlfriend?” he tries. 

“But girls, are they even—?” He murmurs in a heated, blushing rush. “I mean why would I—“

“Do you like girls?”

“Yes—no—they’re scary?”

Minseok pokes thoughtfully at his food. “I don’t think I do,” he says, and Kyungsoo spares him a brief glance before Kris moans in exasperation, hands clapping over his face, sigh long-suffering. 

“That’s okay,too.”

Minseok puffs out a breath. 

Jessica—her name is Jessica, and she’s in Group 3, 13 years old, a singer—throws her head back in laughter, and Kris looks like he can’t breathe. 

 

Orientation is immediately after, and all the campers and counselors shuffle to the auditorium. They are separated into groups, Kyungsoo and his boys once more beside Jongdae and his.

Kyungsoo hadn't been there for the hiring process, but they'd assured Kyungsoo that he'd _love_ Jongdae. He’s so _charming_ and so talented and so great with people. He was _excited_ to work with the energetic kids, you know, said he loves a challenge. Kyungsoo spares him a lingering glance. He’s short, unassuming and non-threatening in his oversized camp shirt, dark-washed jeans, but handsome and charming enough with his sharp cheekbones and bright, sharp eyes, Kyungsoo agrees. His laughter is loud and nasal and full-bodied as he claps his hands over one of his camper’s shoulders. 

 

After introductions, a series of awkward and uncomfortable ice breaking games—Mix and Match, Two Truths and a Lie, Shoe Pile Mingle—the Head Counselor reviews all the rules the students have already read in their Camper’s Handbook pamphlets, right, then outlines their daily routine, the schedule of events, their individual class schedule. Reminds them after all this, that the point of this camping adventure is to have fun and make friends and listen to good music. 

After orientation, they watch movies on the projector screen—Little Mermaid, Lion King, Heavy Weights, Goonies. 

It’s already late, and his campers are already nodding off by the time they get to the good stuff. Kyungsoo has to prod them awake, bite back laughter at the sleepy blinks he gets as they shuffle clumsy back towards their cabins. 

Kyungsoo knows the way, can guide them easily, but he turns his flashlight to its brightest setting nonetheless. They somehow still manage to stumble. 

 

Turning on his side, after they’ve all showered, changed, turned off the lights, Kyungsoo can hear someone crying soft and quiet and secret, and his stomach twists. 

It’s the first night, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to—

The muffled sobs die, dissolve mercifully into shuddery breaths soon enough, deep and heavy with sleep. 

And Kyungsoo watches the moonlight twinkle and dance along the ceiling, counting the wooden panels as he wills himself asleep. 

 

Kyungsoo wakes up at 6:45AM—way too fucking early, wakes them up at 6:50AM—still too fucking early. 

And it’s important—of upmost importance—to impress upon them punctuality and responsibility. This is fun, yes, but they’re also here to learn. They can’t miss classes just because the weather is so nice or their bed is so warm or their—the supervisor had cast pointed glance in Chanyeol’s direction—counselor is too absent-minded. 

Kyungsoo undertakes the task.

Taekwoon frowns up at him with only one eye squinted open, menacing in all his sleep-rumpled indignation. Jongin has to be half-dragged to the showers, heavy and whining the entire way, tripping over his clumsy feet, stumbling over rocks and nearly falling into stray trees. Kris whines around his mouthful of toothpaste. Minseok is the only chipper one, and Kyungsoo is grateful for him once more.

They're all more alive after their shower, breakfast, jittery, nervous smiles and wry comments as Kyungsoo leads them to their classes.

 

The hours between morning classes and lunch then again between afternoon classes and dinner, they’re his to use as he pleases.

Kyungsoo opens the films he’s preloaded on his laptop, the books he’s download on his iPad. 

If he was different, had a different disposition maybe, was more open and less particular with people, he’d maybe wander into the counselor lobby, watch movies there on the projection screen or move to the couches and sit amongst the other counselors to talk about the books he’s read, sit back and listen to them practice Chanyeol on his guitar, Henry with his violin, Minah with her voice. 

But he isn’t, so he doesn’t, instead relishes the opportunity to recharge. 

An hour in, he prints a new name tag for Kris, laminates it, pauses briefly to catch Howon bend Chanyeol over, in frustration, hissing about how his form is all _wrong_

 

His campers are more relaxed at lunch, timidly recounting their experiences around bites of their Italian hoagie, chips, apple slices, pauses—at least in Kris’ case—to look longingly at Jessica. 

 

There is more silence for Kyungsoo afterward. He manages to finish another novel before he’s hurrying back to the classrooms. 

More comfortable, talkative, they have more stories to tell at dinner, after their individual workshops, speaking around chicken and rice casserole, steamed broccoli, dinner rolls. 

 

That night is their talent show, a chance for the counselors to introduce themselves more formally, showcase their individual talents: piano, violin, guitar, vocals, dance, and the counselors are separated from their campers, seated stage right. 

Kyungsoo used to be the only male vocalist, but the new hire Jongdae Kim sings. Maybe even as well as you, Minah warns nudging him playfully, she’d heard his audition. Kyungsoo shifts uncomfortably in his hard, brown metal chair, then forces himself to relax, leaning back to watch. 

Hyoyeon, Eunji, Howon, Henry in quick, impressive succession. An intermission. Chanyeol, then Jongdae. 

Kyungsoo sits forward. 

Jongdae shifts in his oversized shirt, cradles the microphone close to his chest, introducing himself with a slight laugh as the speakers hiccup to a start. 

“Unchained Melody,” and Kyungsoo leans even further forward, notes the way that Jongdae’s nose crinkles in obvious nerves. 

Then he opens his mouth, sings strong and clear and passionate and overpowering, and Kyungsoo’s stunned, goosebumps blooming across his skin at the raw, ardent appeal in Jongdae’s voice. 

_Holy fuck_. 

Slackjawed, Kyungsoo is more than vaguely impressed, entirely put out, and Jongdae lowers his microphone with another laugh, this one louder, brasher, but not less self-conscious, nose crinkling again, as the campers, the counselors, the supervisor clap. And Jongdae’s kids—the loud ones—stand up and whoop, fists raised in the air, cheering long enough for the other counselors to shush them. 

Jongdae is blushing, smiling softly and shyly when he sits down. 

Kyungsoo performs next, nervous now, too, but comfortable once he stands centerstage, gets the microphone in his hands. He sings Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” lets the music swell through him, sweep all else away. 

He wows, too. His campers clap, too. Loud, too. Lu Han cupping his hands over his mouth to scream, but something small and ugly, like insecurity and jealousy crawls up his throat, stays lodged there as he falls into his hard, plastic chair. And he hates it. 

The rest of the performances pass in a daze after that. 

 

They’re fully awake this time, when they stumble back to their cabins, brush their teeth, wash their faces, change into their pajamas. 

“Can we listen to that song?” Taekwoon asks, as he settles in his bunk. 

They do, Youtube autoplay through several others, too, until Jongin and Minseok are nodding off. And Kyungsoo turns off the song—”I Just Called to Say I Love You”—turns off the light. 

There are several sleepy shuffles, infrequent enough for Kyungsoo to be nearly dozing when someone speaks. 

“Counselor Kyungsoo,” a voice whispers. So soft that Kyungsoo barely registers it. 

“Yes?”

“You’re so, so talented.” A shift, to his left. Jongin or Lu Han, he can’t tell, it’s too soft and hesitant to properly place. “Seriously the best. I can’t believe it.” He isn’t, but he smiles at the compliment, warmed by it. 

“Thank you.” 

“Really.” A pause. ”You’re—we’re both Korean.” So Jongin, then. “Can I call you hyung?”

“Yes.” 

“Thank you.” A yawn. Kyungsoo squints out into the darkness, sees the flash of Jongin’s teeth. 

“Go to sleep,” Kyungsoo urges, and Jongin nods. 

 

Kyungsoo spots Jongdae at breakfast the next morning in the dining hall as he blinks blearily at his scrambled eggs, sleepily stirs his black coffee. 

Jongdae plants himself three tables down, and his campers swarm around him—like chicks or piglets or...some other baby animal herding around their guardian. 

Jongdae has Baekhyun, Jonghyun, Junghwan, Inseong, Jaehwan and even though they’re loud, they’re _listening_ to him, respecting him. They’ve connected with him, smiling at him as they chirp—they’re chicks, Kyungsoo decides—animatedly too damn early in the morning. 

Jongdae's smile reaches his eyes, and his laugh echoes as it rings across the dining hall and Kyungsoo decides then and there that he hates him, hates how horribly talented he is, hates how disgustingly handsome he is, how awfully charming he is, how he's already made all of his campers fall in love with them though it’s been days. Hates how they already have a fucking handshake and are singing their own songs over their scrambled eggs. Hates how they look like a collective while Kyungsoo's still trying to get his campers to _like_ him enough to talk to him of their own volition for any extended period of time. 

Jongdae had gotten all the difficult kids, and he's shining. That something small and ugly swells, heavy in Kyungsoo’s throat. He swallows another gulp of coffee, wills it away. 

He still feels bumbling and stiff with his campers, resents that Jongdae is such a _natural_ , a talented and charismatic and charming _natural_. 

Kyungsoo isn’t _good_ with kids, he’s told his parents in the past. Not good with small things in general. He still vividly remembers panicking the first time he held a puppy—his aunt’s. How he’d dropped him because it squirmed so much, and it was so hard to hold still. 

It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t try, doesn’t want to try, but there are so many soft squishy parts, so many soft squishy feelings to these vulnerable impressionable minds that Kyungsoo is terrified of scarring by accident. 

And how can Jongdae be so—

Indignation curls in his throat, and he takes another an angry, bitter sip from his coffee. 

 

But he can do good by them, he decides, resolves. Better by them even. 

 

He watches two films during his free time. Retypes his resume. Takes a walk among the trees. 

 

At lunch that afternoon, he makes a more active effort to speak with them, asking about their classes, their classmates, their families, their feelings. Lu Han is the most talkative, Taekwoon and Kris, the least. The former, quiet, shy, deliberately shoving chicken nuggets and mixed vegetables in his mouth whenever there is a beat of silence. The latter, too preoccupied casting wistful glances. 

Kyungsoo tries not to make overmuch of either hindrance, smiling around his mouthful of vanilla ice cream when Taekwoon finally mentions his older sisters, Kris finally blinks out of his daze and mentions how much he likes his Piano class. 

 

“Who’s your favorite vocalist?” Kyungsoo tries again at dinner, looking in Kris’ general direction. But Kris is looking at Jessica once more, this awful, potent, raw, raw longing in his eyes that makes Kyungsoo’s stomach twist. He looks away, redirects his gaze to Minseok, who is poking listlessly at his neon orange macaroni cheese. His had been a special batch, per his request, less cheese. Kyungsoo hurts on his behalf.

“I like Usher,” Lu Han says after several beats. “I sang _My Boo_ with my best friend in a school talent show.”

“Is that what you’re planning to sing at the talent show?”

Lu Han’s nose wrinkles. “No,” he says. And he’s looking at the girls’ tables with Kris. “I’d need a girl.”

“You can…ask.”

“Just because you’ve had a girlfriend before,” Lu Han mutters, shoving a menacing forkful of garden salad in his mouth. 

 

That evening is Game Night, in the Dining Hall at 8PM. Dominoes, Connect 4, Guess Who, Sorry!, Checkers, Chess, the counselors each manning a table, a chance for the children to mingle. 

Halfway through Go Fish, Chanyeol changes his mind and sets up a Poker tournament for his Group 3 boys, with Moonpies as currency. Minseok is only 11, can’t eat Moonpies, regardless, but he joins, plopping down right next to one of Chanyeol’s boys, smiling as the boy leans forward to speak to him. Minseok is practically glowing. 

Kyungsoo grins as he clears the Connect 4 board, and a Group 2 boy plops down across from him. One of Jongdae’s. Baekhyun, his name tag reads. 

“Is it true” Baekhyun starts, squinting up at him conspiratorially, “that you had seven whole girlfriends during camp? One for every day of the program?” 

Kyungsoo snorts, drops a black chip. “Who told you that?”

“Lu Han, in Music Theory class today.” 

Kyungsoo shakes his head and Baekhyun purses his lips, unimpressed. “I had one,” Kyungsoo clarifies after a long beat. “You only need one.”

Baekhyun wrinkles his nose, lips puckering in disdain. “You should have just lied to me,” he decides, frowning as he slides a red chip into place, thwarting Kyungsoo’s winning line. “Now I’ll have to tell Counselor Jongdae that he’s the coolest boy counselor again.”

Kyungsoo blinks, then laughs. “What about Howon or Henry? Or Chanyeol?”

Baekhyun grimaces, gaze entirely withering. “They’re tall. They don’t count.”

 

They have a hot chocolate party afterwards, complete with marshmallows and s’mores. Minseok drinks tea. 

 

“Who’s your favorite singer?” he asks once more that night, after they’ve gotten back to their rooms, freshly showered, tucked in. They’re laying on their bunks, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as Kyungsoo’s usb disco ball paints the room in golds and blues. He holds up his phone, an offering. 

“I don’t really—“ Kris pauses. “I don’t listen to a lot of singers. I don’t know.”

“Classical?” Kyungsoo tries, and Kris shudders, remembers himself and shakes his head. 

“My mother wants me to, but I don't—” He puffs out his cheeks in a long, long exhale. “Skip me.”

“Taylor Swift,” Minseok volunteers, soft and slightly shaky. Then louder, more self-assured. “Taylor Swift. ‘You Belong With Me.’”

They lay back, keep beat with their fingers on the hard varnished wood of their bunk beds until their heads are heavy with sleep, and Kyungsoo turns off the light, the music. 

 

That next morning on their daily trek to the bathrooms, Lu Han screams the lyrics to “Blank Space,” and Kyungsoo red-faced at the attention, forces himself to scream along. 

Jongdae and his boys are there, too, and they sing, too—”Bad Blood” and “I Knew You Were Trouble”—a bespectacled Jongdae laughing, elbowing Kyungsoo as he sings along. 

Jongdae pauses to spit in the sink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are puffy, probably with sleep, disconcertingly pink for a man, and the corner of his mouth curls in a lazy grin. Jongdae licks his lips slowly, luxuriously like he knows that Kyungsoo is watching him, momentarily transfixed. And an intrusive, brief, brief, potent, potent thought and desire flares through him, tracing those pink, plush lips with his fingers, his tongue, tasting the sharpness of his mouth. 

Unsettled, Kyungsoo blinks at Jongdae’s, his own reflection in mirror, brushing extra viciously until he’s spitting pink. 

 

There was mosquitos in their room last night, all exclusively attracted to his scent and his blood. And he scratches his elbows, biceps, calves nearly raw waiting for his campers to return from their classes Wednesday morning, afternoon. 

“You got one on your nose,” Lu Han notes, shifting his backpack on his shoulder before plopping on their table, rattling his grilled chicken salad, fries, corn. He points, like Kyungsoo can’t feel it, hasn’t been aware this entire time.

Kyungsoo grimaces around a nod. 

“Pinocchio,” Jongin murmurs, biting his lip immediately afterward, but flushing with amusement when Lu Han barks out a laugh. 

 

“What’s tonight’s activity?” Minseok asks, twisting to look up at him. And Kyungsoo blinks at pair of very large, very sharp eyes peeking at him over the edge of his mattress. 

“Arts and crafts,” he answers. “It’s optional,” he adds after a beat. “We can make bracelets or lanyards. I think Minah is leading a table, so maybe origami, too. And Chanyeol, he might show you how to carve a whistle.”

Minseok crinkles his nose, shifts so his face is dangling off the edge now. A nervous blip of energy briefly flares up Kyungsoo’s throat—that puppy that he’d dropped, this eleven-year old that he would have failed to protect. But Minseok thankfully shifts, chubby cheek pressing against the railing. There’s an indent where pale, soft skin meets dark wood. 

“One year,” Kyungsoo adds, “We made popsicle stick picture frames for our parents. It could be fun.” Even though he'd resented it then, would probably resent it now, too. 

“Or,” Minseok starts. “We could stay in? Maybe listen to music again?”

“Yes,” Jongin, Lu Han agree in unison. 

“Yes, definitely stay in,” Taekwoon contributes. He twists to look at Kyungsoo, eyes sharp beneath his long, dark bangs. “It’s my turn to pick a song, right? My favorite vocalist is Park Hyo Shin. He’s Korean.” Taekwoon’s already turned his head to stare the ceiling, in anticipation of Kyungsoo’s disco strobelight, but he sits up suddenly, turns to regard him, voice pitched soft and maybe almost patient, understanding—comically so. “ Do you know how to type in Hangul? It’s okay if you don’t. I can do it.”

Taekwoon Jung is a singer, so quiet that Kyungsoo hardly notices him, often forgets him until he interrupts the silence with his soft, soft voice, occasionally cutting wit. He reminds Kyungsoo of himself, in a way. He had requested extra workshop classes over an elective, painfully dedicated to his craft, and he sings along with the music now, eyes closed, face soft. 

Jongin follows Taekwoon. He requests Usher, grinning when Lu Han turns in his bunk to compliment his taste. 

Jongin Kim, he’d come for dance, has been doing ballet since he was 3, but he also maybe wants to try at singing. His elective class is Vocal Tech. 

The years of dance, they show. He has the awkwardness of puberty to him, too, but it’s tempered, a poise still in his limbs, like he’s somehow figured out his center of gravity better than the others, knows how to navigate and control his lengthening limbs. 

His socked feet drag over the ceiling, as he lipsyncs. 

“I like hip hop music,” Kris says much, much later night, after the sky has bled completely black. He whispers it like it’s a shameful confession, like he’s bracing himself for judgment. His chin looks so sharp on the edge of his bunk, his eyebrows tense. And he probably is—ashamed, scared of being judged. 

Kyungsoo’s chest is tight with the realization. 

“I think—” Kyungsoo tries, swallowing after several beats. “I think you need to find the kind of music that makes you feel alive and pursue that. There’s no shame in that.” Kris lets his bitten lip pop free, eyebrows pinching in his face as he absorbs the words. “Is that what you want to do for the talent show? Hip hop? Counselor Chanyeol, you know he plays guitar and piano, but he also raps, if you’re interested in that.” 

Kris entire face wrinkles now, but in distaste. 

“I can’t—I’m not _good_ at it. I’m not good at music. I can’t sing. I can’t make my hands make music. I can’t keep time, right. But I just—you know—I _feel_ it when I listen to hip hop.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t press it, and Kris murmurs about a song he wants to listen to, it’s his turn to pick. Will everyone be okay with cursing? 

His head melts back against the bed this time, and his lips move silently along with Nas, eyes closed, fingers keeping time on his flanneled thighs. 

 

The next morning, Kyungsoo glances—absent, by chance—in Jongdae’s direction, drawn by the garish plastic clash of colors. Purple, neon green, hot pink, firetruck red. 

Jongdae's got rainbow colored friendship bracelets circling his golden arms. He motions as he speaks, and Kyungsoo imagines they probably rattle audibly with every emphatic flick of his wrist. 

His fingers itch—just briefly but enough to piss Kyungsoo off—to wrap around his wrists, tug him closer, feel the golden skin beneath those ugly bracelets. 

 

He wanders out before lunch, wants to charm the cook, get in and out, but he pauses when he hears laughter—bold, braying laughter. Jongdae is there, dancing or trying to, wiggling his hips emphatically though out of rhythm. Hyoyeon is watching, hiding her laughter behind her hand, and Howon is _teaching_ , correcting, his face pinching in concentration, twisting with thinly-veiled frustration. He’s probably used up all of his patience on his Group 1 boys, the 7 to 9 year olds that Kyungsoo had been spared. 

He lingers briefly as he watches, and Jongdae waves, shimmies again, even more forcefully. 

The bracelets do rattle. 

And Kyungsoo stares for a beat too long, long enough for Howon to ask if he wants to dance, too, and for Kyungsoo to blink his way out of his momentary—fleeting, fleeting fascination. 

 

But he’s staring again at lunch, fascinated again at lunch, twirling his fettuccine alfredo with his spork absently, watching Jongdae less absently. Minseok breaks the spell by asking if anyone wants to trade their peas for an extra slice of garlic bread. Kyungsoo agrees. 

 

The students don’t have afternoon classes, and Kyungsoo orders them to slather on sunblock, change into their bathing suits—yes, basketball shorts and t-shirts count; it’s what he’s gonna wear, too, so nobody will think it’s weird, ok, no need to worry—and meet at the lake. 

The other Group 2 group boys—and of course Jongdae—are already there. The Group 3 girls are, too, shivering on the deck with their towels wrapped around their shoulders and around their hair.

Jongdae isn’t wearing a shirt, and the water droplets collect on the definition of his shoulders, his sternum, glittering in the fading sunlight. 

Kyungsoo’s staring—too long, too obvious. He's interrupted by a sharp, heavy splash of icy water, sputtering around a mouthful of it, and Jongdae laughs, splashes once more. 

Mortification burns hot as it jolts through Kyungsoo’s body. Had he—Oh God, what if he’d—and thought that Kyungsoo—

Jongdae splashes again, and Kyungsoo swallows another mouthful of cold, cold water, coughing violently to clear his throat. He can hear Lu Han, one of Jongdae’s campers cackle. 

“We’re not supposed to,” Kyungsoo starts, rubbing at his face, blinking past the droplets still sitting heavily on his eyelashes, and Jongdae splashes again, screams in laughter when Kyungsoo lunges. 

Jongdae is faster, has bodyguards in the form of shrieking, flailing boys, who spray him with icy jets of water, distract him with thrashing limbs. Jongin, Lu Han, and Kris attempt to intervene, “defend his honor” Jongin calls it, but Kris stops when he realizes that Jessica is watching. 

Jongdae declares himself victor soon after, climbing up on the deck. His campers follow. Kyungsoo’s soon after. 

They’re shivering, fingers and toes pruney, hair drip drying on their oversized beach towels as the sun casts warm and golden over their faces. It’s silent, but comfortable. 

 

They eat dinner together, Jongdae and his campers squeezing onto Kyungsoo’s table, Jongdae’s thin elbows knocking into his arm as he eats. Kyungsoo has a hard time focusing on his baked pasta, green salad, garlic bread, chocolate cake, with Jongdae’s laughter and nasal observations settling under his skin, unsettling him. 

 

There’s a campfire that night, s’mores, music courtesy an extension cord, the auditorium’s speaker system, Chanyeol’s iPod. 

The music he plays, Kyungsoo would argue, isn’t really appropriate, but it loosens the campers’ nerves as they pile on the benches around the campfire, roast marshmallows, talk, dance in a makeshift dancefloor near the trees. 

Kyungsoo bumps his shoe against Minseok’s to get his attention, and Minseok jerks, then relaxes. Kyungsoo motions with his chin, to where Kris is flirting, Jongin and Lu Han dancing, Taekwoon talking. He spots Jongdae laugh as he touches Chanyeol’s arm, too and his stomach twists. 

He bumps Minseok’s shoe again. 

“Do you see anyone that you want to dance with?” he asks Minseok. And Minseok nods, then shakes his head, looks down at his shoes. He kicks at dirt, and Kyungsoo watches him watch his feet for several beats. 

Minseok’s allowed only one glass of punch, and he’s savoring it, cradling it close to his chest, sipping before speaking. 

“I don’t want a girlfriend,” he says finally, and Kyungsoo starts to laugh. But even in the fire’s dancing shadow, Minseok’s ears are red. And his fingers are twisting in the material of his pants, tight and nervous. 

“You don’t have to date anyone just yet. Just dance. I know Kris is melodramatic about it, but it doesn’t have to be serious.”

Minseok’s eyes are still on his shoes. “I don’t—I don’t want a girlfriend,” he repeats. Then quieter. “And I don’t like dancing with girls.” 

His tone—the soft hesitance and vulnerability of it—has Kyungsoo watching him again. More closely. His fingers are clenched into tight fists now, and his eyes are shining too bright as he blinks. He looks like a small trapped animal. 

And oh. Oh _fuck_. 

“You don’t—not girls?”

“Is that okay?” Minseok breathes in a tense, tense rush. 

_Jesus_. 

“Yes.” 

Minseok puffs out his cheeks in a heavy exhale. His shoulders sag in relief. 

“It’s more than okay,” Kyungsoo continues, louder, maybe fiercer than he intends it to be. “It’s normal, and it’s natural. And it’s okay.”

“Okay,” Minseok says, and his hands have at least loosened, dangling purposelessly by his sides. He’s looking longingly still in the crowd’s direction. 

“Do you see anyone you want to dance with?” he tries again. He pauses, swallows. “You know, I don’t—I don’t like dancing with girls either.”

Minseok’s lips curl in a smile, shy and only a little bit sad. “Do _you_ see anyone you want to dance with?” he asks. 

Kyungsoo shakes his head. Minseok exhales a laugh. It’s only a little bit wet. 

“Anyone you want to talk to?” he tries again. 

And Minseok nods slowly. 

“Dance, too,” he confesses. “Wanna dance, too.”

“Talk to—talk to him. Be braver than Kris.”

Minseok laughs, and it’s less wet, more genuine. Kyungsoo kicks his shoe, elbows him, and Minseok rises shakily, makes his way to the crowd. 

 

Minseok approaches the boy, the boy from the Poker tournament, hands shoved in his pockets as he talks to him. The other boy smiles at something he says, shoves a roasted marshmallow in his mouth, offers Minseok one, too. Minseok hesitates before taking it. 

Kyungsoo grins. 

Scanning the crowd for more of his campers as he bites into a graham cracker, he spots Kris. Kris with Jessica. He can see the awful tension in his shoulders, shivering through his hoodied limbs as he talks to her. 

Kyungsoo’s so busy watching Kris that he doesn’t register the warmth of a body beside him until he speaks—wistful, soft. 

“They’re cute,” he says, laughs when Kyungsoo jumps. 

He motions with his chin. 

Kyungsoo forces his body to relax, nods. In his periphery, Jongdae purses his lips in thought. The golden twilight, golden flames dance across his face, makes it alternately sharp and soft. 

“He is really taken with her,” Kyungsoo laughs. “I had my first girlfriend at camp, too.” Jongdae hums in acknowledgement. 

“Me, too.” 

Something painfully close to disappointment curls in his stomach. 

“Minah,” he says, reckless maybe or bragging. 

Jongdae’s eyebrows furrow, crinkled smile falls. He whistles abruptly, impressed. And yes, Kyungsoo is bragging, not being reckless, not sabotaging anything because there’s nothing here, never was. 

“We used to hold hands in the dining hall,” Kyungsoo continues—unnecessarily. “Used to sneak out at night to make out on the lake.” Until his lips and his heart ached, until he was kiss- and touch-drunk enough to trick himself into thinking that it counted and worked and was real because he was trying as hard as he could. 

“Still?” Jongdae’s voice sounds maybe tight, strained. Kyungsoo steals a glance, and the shadows paint him almost sad, maybe even hurt. 

“ _No_ ,” he shakes his head hard, curls his fingers into fists, the knuckles brushing the hem of Jongdae’s shorts, his bare, soft skin. “I liked her—loved her, love her still, but not...I don’t—don’t like dancing with girls.” 

And there’s a maybe minute movement in his periphery, Jongdae’s shoulders sagging maybe in relief, or it’s another trick of the light. 

“Don’t like dancing at all from what I’ve seen,” he says, rising to join Chanyeol once more. 

Kyungsoo doesn’t correct him, watches the flames, then Jongin, then Taekwoon, then Kris, then Lu Han, then Minseok, settles on Chanyeol as he bops wildly to the music. 

He roasts another 3 marshmallows, Chanyeol cycles through 4 more songs before Jongdae returns. 

He’s suddenly bold, insistent, fingers fitting around his elbows, dragging him forward with a loud, ringing laugh. His arms wind around Kyungsoo’s waist as Kyungsoo stumbles into his hold. “Dance with me,” he urges. “Dance with a boy since you don’t dance with girls anymore.”

Pressed flush and warm with his body, Jongdae smiles at him, equal parts sharp and indulgent, beautifully unsettling in the fire’s flickering glow. Kyungsoo imagines it’s the kind of smile that butchers give sheep before leading them to the slaughter, their fingers probably just as soft on their prey’s skin, eyes twinkling in that same awful, awful way. 

“This isn’t how you dance,” Jongdae laughs, cutting and derisive. “You’re supposed to move. Come on, set a good example for your campers. Or do you not know how?” 

“I know” Kyungsoo says, goaded, emboldened, defensive, though still unnerved, unsure of what this is, and he skates his palms down Jongdae’s sides, rests them on the delicate jut of his waist. There’s none of that awkwardness he’d seen in the lobby; Jongdae’s all smooth grace like this. His muscles shift in his grip, rolling smooth, in time with the slow, filthy rhythm. These songs—they really aren’t for children. And he can feel the headiness of it settling in his bones, as he presses back, rocking in time. 

This close, he can feel the thrum of Jongdae’s heartbeat against his own. 

So close. Too close. 

He doesn’t—doesn’t understand. 

And this is also grossly inappropriate. 

Jongdae’s arms tighten where they’ve looped around his neck, and he drags him down enough to breath hot and lilting into his ear. “That’s more like it,” he hums, his lips skimming Kyungsoo’s earlobe, his jawline, his throat on the retreat. His eyelashes flutter kisses along his skin. 

Jongdae bites his lower lip as he sways against him. And it’s captivating, but Jongdae looks just as captivated, entranced, entrancing, pressing so close that his nose skims Kyungsoo’s. 

His gaze drops to Kyungsoo’s parted lips, back towards his eyes, something dark and brief there before he spins, loud and full-bodied, his ass to Kyungsoo’s crotch, then his thigh. 

He spins once more, lips pink and parted, so achingly close as they graze his chin, his jawline, and Kyungsoo can’t look away. Jongdae catches him staring at his mouth and raises an eyebrow, his smile suddenly sharper, his fingers tighter, movements more lingering and urgent and hot and wrong. 

The song ends, and Kyungsoo and Jongdae are both left panting. Jongdae swallowing heavily before trilling about needing to find another partner. 

 

They bump into each other in the showers that night, and Kyungsoo ignores the weight of Jongdae’s eyes on his face as he brushes his teeth, extra fast, extra hard. 

 

Lu Han hesitates as he climbs into his bed, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “So, you and Counselor Jongdae—?” Swallowing, Kyungsoo nods at him to continue. “Do you—Are you—I mean is that why you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Kyungsoo’s cheeks heat. “Yes,” he confirms. 

“Is—will Jongdae be your boyfriend?” It’s Minseok this time, his words slow and hesitant. 

“It was just a dance,” Kyungsoo says. Then when that seems unsatisfactory, all the boys wrinkling their noses, Jongin narrowing his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he decides. 

“Is it because—” Jongin pauses, glances furtively from Kyungsoo to the door, in the direction of Jongdae’s cabin. 

“Is it because you aren’t as handsome, hyung?”

Lu Han laughs so hard he inhales water and wheezes loudly and unattractively enough for Kyungsoo to crawl over and pound him on the back. 

Lu Han manages another weak laugh as he sips from his water bottle again. 

“The talent show is Saturday,” Kyungsoo reminds them, changing the subject, and Taekwoon sighs loudly. 

“Our teachers remind us every period. Not you, too.”

“But have you been practicing?” 

Taekwoon sighs again. “Yes,” he says. “We all have.” 

 

Friday, he wakes up early, as usual, and Kris is already scribbling in his notebook.

“Talent show?” he asks, voice groggy with sleep, and Kris flushes, but nods. 

 

Jongdae and his campers don’t sit at Kyungsoo’s table for breakfast or lunch, and it seems so quiet without him. 

 

His campers don’t have afternoon classes once more, and Kyungsoo leads them to the auditorium to practice this time, lets them sprawl across the chairs, lets Kris seat himself at the piano. He’s been studying the longest, is the best at it even if—even if he hates it. 

His mother is convinced that music will help her son's emotional, social, and academic development, that it will be one of the selling points to put on his college applications 6 years down the line, along with his stellar grades, glowing letters of recommendation, impressive laundry lists of extra curricular activities. It’ll make him an attractive applicant. He has to be an attractive applicant, he'd confessed in a rush while watching the others tinker on the piano. Jongin giggling at the notes, Minseok pinching his face in concentration. He can’t—can’t let her down, you know. 

His fingers are stiff, but ultimately adequate on the piano, trained if not a little passionless. It’s a decent enough rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”  
Better than decent, honestly, if you can’t see him counting the notes to himself between breaths, his comically long leg jittering nervously near the sustain pedal. 

He asks if he can stay behind. _Practice_ , pulling out several folded sheets of music from his pant pockets, something self-composed, his notes blocky and clumsy.

Kyungsoo readily agrees.

 

The others practice, too. Not just in their workshop classes, in the dining hall, on the trek to their classes, in the shower—cacophonous, voices blending into each other. But Kyungsoo can pick out their voices, the deep cadence of his Kris’ rap, Minseok’s, Lu Han’s, Taekwoon’s singing, Jongin’s humming bleeding with the white noise of running water. 

They have their Friday Formal that night, after dinner—a _fancy_ helping of pesto pasta, sundried tomatoes, garlic bread, peach cobbler—and Kyungsoo helps Kris, Jongin, Lu Han iron their pants and shirts. Offers to help Minseok and Taekwoon, too, but they _know_ how already. Taekwoon had to wear one at his sister’s engagement. He can tie his tie all by himself, too, help the boys with theirs, too. 

They’ve decorated the auditorium with streamers, balloons, strobelights, and Chanyeol has once more declared himself DJ, head bopping to every single song he plays. Once more a series of Top 40 hits that don’t really sound child-appropriate, honestly, the bassline utterly filthy, the vocals breathy and low. 

The first to arrive, Kyungsoo and his campers linger by the refreshment table, helping themselves to the champagne flutes of grape juice, crystalline bowls of punch, arrangements of cookies, cupcakes, hors d’oeuvres. 

The girls arrive soon after, Group 2 and Group 3. The other Group 2 boys, too. 

Jessica’s dress matches Kris’ shirt, a deep burgundy, and Kyungsoo doesn’t know if it’s Fate or some happy accident. But he grins into his plastic cup, nonetheless, elbows Kris in encouragement, and Kris shudders bodily, shuffles closer to her. It kinda looks like a magnet stumbling towards its other pole, or a moth to a flame. 

Taekwoon disappears with one of the Group 3 girls, too. Jongin and and Lu Han move to the other side of the auditorium where the benches, other Group 2 boys. 

Minseok stays beside him, twitching nervously, biting his lip hard, his hands trembling so badly he undoes his shirt cuffs. Kyungsoo helps him, then follows his line of sight.

The boy—Changmin, Kyungsoo notes, with a twist of second-hand nervousness. 

“You did okay last time,” Kyungsoo reminds him, fixing Minseok’s tie, too, smoothing the wrinkles in his jacket. “Talked to him just fine. I think he likes you. Even if—” he swallows. “Even if it’s just as a friend. He likes talking to you.” 

Minseok nods hastily, bites his lip harder, nearly white. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” 

Presentable, Minseok makes his way over to him once more. Their elbows knock, and Changmin grins at something he says. Minseok is beaming. 

 

Kyungsoo leans agains the wall, helps himself to another cookie. As the night before. And as the night before, Jongdae leans beside him, follow his line of sight. 

“Oh,” he says softly. “They’re cute, too.” 

“I told him it’s okay,” Kyungsoo says, and Jongdae nods. “But I don’t actually know if it’s will be. At home, I mean. I don’t know if anyone else will actually think it’s okay. It’ s always so—I’m gonna give him my email address once this is over.”

Jongdae lips are pursed, eyes downcast, but he nods solemnly. “That’s good for him.”

“He’s a kid. It might be nothing, you know, but I still want him to know that it’s okay. That I’m okay with it even if no one else is. And I want him—want him to feel safe and not get his heart broken so young.”

“Changmin is a good kid,” Jongdae murmurs, and Kyungsoo turns to look at him. 

Jongdae’s voice, his eyes are pensive, and it feels rare, forbidden, somehow more unnerving than his usual brash boisterousness. Insecurity burrows uncomfortably under his skin. 

But then another song plays, and Jongdae barks out a loud laugh, a trilled “This is my song,” shimmying as he makes his way to the dance floor. He loops his arm around Hyoyeon, who laughs, but indulges, and Kyungsoo watches them go. 

Jongdae, Kyungsoo confirms, dances with both boys and girls. 

 

Saturday is their Talent Show, and the food is heartier, heavier to reflect that. 

Buttermilk pancakes and oatmeal for breakfast, spaghetti carbonara for lunch. Snacks, if they need them as they undergo their last minute preparations. 

The show starts at 3PM. 

They’re recording it for the parents already, but Kyungsoo films their performances for himself, heart tight when the MC calls Kris’ name. 

Kris’ shoulders shoot up nervously, his fingers tense, lip caught between his teeth, but the music starts and his shoulders square, his limbs loosen, his body becomes animated with confidence or with purpose or with passion. 

And his performance, it’s spectacular, sharp wit, tight bars, underscored with every grin he casts in the audience’s direction, and yes, this is where he was meant to be. What he was meant to do. 

Kris, he decides, is a star. They all are.

Jongin, all fluid grace and quiet power, talented beyond his years, dancing to an instrumental of Grand Master Flash’s “The Message.”

Taekwoon, his voice ringing powerfully, haunting in his rendition Trey Songz’s “Can’t Be Friends.” Lu Han and Minseok, beautiful, too, with their performance of “My Boo,” Minseok as Usher, Lu Han as Alicia Keys, their faces pinching as they tense to hit the high notes.

Kyungsoo’s applause is loudest of all.

They’re the only ones that matter—his kids—and pride swells in his chest.

 

He finds himself suddenly shy afterwards as he congratulates, bouquets in hand. “I—I got these for you guys,” he starts, presenting the flowers, too proud, too overcome. And they beam at him. “This isn’t—” he continues, swallowing. “Isn’t a participation medal. This isn’t just because I’m your counselor. You guys are really so, so talented, and I’m very proud of you.”

His phone itches in his pocket. “Let’s—” he pauses. “Let’s take a picture together.” 

It takes work to squeeze into the same frame, the flowers, too, but he likes the result. They do, too, demanding he send it to their parents. 

 

Their celebration is to be held in the auditorium, and Kyungsoo goes to pick up extra lightbulbs, and Jongdae volunteers to help. He’s clumsy through the woods, unused to the terrain and trips a good 3 minutes in. Squawking indignantly, he steadies himself on Kyungsoo, holding his hand, but swinging them between them so Kyungsoo doesn’t know if he means it—like that. If he wants Jongdae to mean it like that. 

The lightbulbs are in the utility cabin, high. 

As he reaches the top shelf, Jongdae helps, pressed flush against him, steadying, so that Kyungsoo can feel the race of his pulse, the ghost of his breath. Kyungsoo steps down, but Jongdae stays pressed close. His eyes on Kyungsoo are electric and hot and utterly disarming. It feels heavy and imposing and awful and amazing, and Kyungsoo’s breath is short, his skin tight. He quells the urge to shudder, to squirm, to let on in some way that he feels—anything because of or for him. He can’t—doesn’t want a repeat of what happened Thursday. At least, maybe, not exactly. 

“Jongdae,” Kyungsoo tries, and Jongdae smiles. He’s so, so close that it’s pressed to Kyungsoo’s skin, warm and distressingly soft on the corner of his jaw. “Jongdae,” he repeats. 

“I really want to kiss you," Jongdae says, pulling back just the slightest, unapologetically, unnervingly honest, his eyes still so bright, too damningly enticing. 

“Jongdae,” he says. But he doesn’t—doesn’t have other words. 

“Do you want to—” Jongdae swallows, something unsure, something maybe vulnerable bleeding into his tone. “I don’t want to be the only one. You’re so hot and cold.”

Kyungsoo blinks back surprise, and suddenly Jongdae’s smile is sharp, cocksure and dark with promise. “Your mouth is gorgeous,” he says, groaning softly when Kyungsoo reflexively bites his lips at the praise. “Want to kiss you—so badly. You said—you danced with me.” 

Kyungsoo bites his bottom lip again, lets it catch and drag—unnecessary and tense, dazed or maybe wanting—and he can see Jongdae follow that movement, eyes dark and heavy with desire. 

He moves so, so slowly, thumb soft as it presses against his bottom lip, tugs it free. His palm is warm on Kyungsoo’s throat. “Your mouth,” he repeats. 

Kyungsoo swallows, and Jongdae follow that movement, too. His voice sounds far away, pensive suddenly. “Really, really want to kiss you.” 

It’s Kyungsoo that moves first. Jongdae that was waiting, Kyungsoo thinks, for Kyungsoo to act first. He goes willing into Kyungsoo’s arms, moans readily into his mouth as he pins Kyungsoo hip-first to the rickety table behind him. 

Pain blooms in the small of Kyungsoo’s spine, quickly forgotten as Jongdae’s fingers tangle in his hair, tongue presses into his mouth. 

He tugs Kyungsoo’s bottom lip between his teeth, letting it catch, then swell, moaning as he disengages. 

And the desire for more is overpowering and painful and hot, thick and heavy as it crawls up his spine.

His mouth moves to Jongdae’s throat. 

Jongdae smells medicinal, like sunscreen, bug repellant, and his skin is filmy when Kyungsoo presses agains it, but Kyungsoo doesn't fucking care. Licks it off to taste the golden skin beneath. 

It tastes like sunshine, Kyungsoo thinks, and it makes his body heat, heart swell. So he licks harder, tastes the sharp tendons, the soft skin, the vibration of every loud, ringing moan, the breathiest encouragements as Jongdae rocks forward against his thigh. His neck lolls back in invitation or provocation, his fingers tangling in Kyungsoo's hair, tugging. Kyungsoo bites at his throat—in invitation or provocation, and Jongdae shudders beneath Kyungsoo's palms.

And Kyungsoo tugs at the collar of his shirt to get at more skin. 

"Fuck," Jongdae moans, then laughs, all shaky and deep. "Gonna have to put a ton of quarters in the swear jar if you keep that up.” Kyungsoo does keep it up, bites harder, and lower on his neck, and Jongdae breathes out another reverent curse. Fuck and shit and damn damn damn don’t fucking stop.

His legs part, and he grinds against Kyungsoo's thighs, khaki rustling as it catches on denim. He drags hard and deliberate, and Kyungsoo curses, too. Kyungsoo shifts, presses into it, and Jongdae is distressingly loud, the heaviest tremor shivering over his body like just the _thought_ of Kyungsoo's cock against his—

"I don’t—Don’t have—” he tells him, and Jongdae kisses his cheek, his laughter warm and rough with arousal.

"Don't make any promises about how you’re clean and it's safe." He pushes him back against the table, harder. The wood protests, pine needles dig into his spine. Jongdae is there with his sharp mouth and his dark eyes and his soft moans and his sunshine skin, the jut of his cock heavy and hot and just just just right. "Just like this,” he gasps. “Just until we get what we need." 

Kyungsoo spins, lifts him on that rickety table, and Jongdae’s knees knock together. He pins him there, as he’d been pinned, and Jongdae moans even louder, fingers digging into his straining shoulders, ankles locking behind Kyungsoo’s back to drag him closer. 

“Your first time?” he groans. 

Kyungsoo shakes his head, and Jongdae groans, louder, longer, throaty. His fingers tangle in Kyungsoo’s hair, tug. “Good,” he rasps, neck arching sharply as he rocks into his thigh, grazes his cock. “Like it better when someone knows what they’re doing.” 

His laugh is breathless and bright, and he bites his lip hard when Kyungsoo lifts Jongdae’s hips, guides his pace. His neck twists back, eyelashes fluttering around a moan, and fuck, he’s gorgeous. 

“Sing for me,” he groans, and Jongdae laughs,derisive, mocking, but it’s reedy with desire, nonetheless. Kyungsoo lifts to fit his cock against Jongdae’s, grinding heavy and deliberate, and Jongdae moans, musical and gorgeous. 

“Knew it,” he whispers weakly. “I knew it. Knew you’d be like this. Hard and forceful. _Perfect_.” 

“Again,” Kyungsoo urges, pushing forward. “Again.”

Jongdae does. 

Blindingly handsome, all awash in the golden sun, beautiful for his bright laughter and bold, bright brashness, beautiful for his breathy moans as he urges Kyungsoo harder and faster, whispers about just exactly how he wants to take him. Wants Kyungsoo in his mouth, wants Kyungsoo's mouth on him, too. It's so fucking gorgeous, looks like it was made to be fucked. Fuck, he wants to fuck him, too. 

He surges upwards to kiss him quiet, drunk still on the heady timbre of Jongdae’s moans. 

Jongdae rocks upwards, his muscles shivering beneath Kyungsoo’s palms, and he gasps into his throat, soft and high, fingernails scraping at clothed skin, clawing as his thrusts get fiercer, more urgent. 

There’s insistence in every heavy drag of his cock, gorgeous arousal in every hiccuping moan. 

Close, close, close. 

Kyungsoo is close, too. The desire to come shivering through every limb, pulling his balls tight.

Kyungsoo's head is swimming, his body overcome with pleasure, and Jongdae is the warm, willing, wanton anchor. 

Clawing and gasping and moaning for more, more, more. 

Kyungsoo bites down hard on his shoulder, rolls deliberately, his shaft dragging purposefully to press hard and relentless against the engorged head of Jongdae’s cock, and Jongdae sobs as orgasm overtakes him. 

Jongdae bites, too, as he comes, hard and painful and hot, and Kyungsoo follows immediately afterward, his hips stuttering to a halt, cock spurting heavily in his boxers. He collapses into Jongdae’s sweaty, sated body. 

Jongdae smiles into his shoulder, kissing there languidly through the comedown, and it’s stupid how it seems to radiate so much heat, have tendrils of contentment branching out from that point of contact to his tingling extremities. 

He is messy and breathless, flushed still, his clothing upset, his hair disheveled, and it’s beautiful. Kyungsoo reaches forward to help him upwards, at a loss suddenly for what to do in the aftermath of this encounter. 

Jongdae smiles, picks stray pine needles from Kyungsoo’s hair, but he drops his hand. 

Jongdae doesn’t hold his hand on the way back, doesn’t speak, and Kyungsoo isn’t about to reach forward and initiate, isn’t about to think through the appropriate words to use after this encounter. 

 

Dinner is a celebration, too. Pizza—the greasy awful for you kind of pizza—soda, cake. 

Kyungsoo can feel Jongdae’s eyes on him all throughout dinner, but he doesn’t work to intercept his gaze. Too focused on celebrating with his students, treasuring these last moments. It’s unbearably sad, the food tasteless, his campers listless.They’re silent and serious in the showers, too, still as they crawl into their bunks for the last time. 

It’s their last night together, and they stay up until past midnight, draining Kyungsoo’s battery. Kyungsoo falls asleep with the light on, wakes up with his phone long-dead. 

 

Breakfast is a sleepy, solemn affair. Lunch solemner yet. 

And Kris isn't crying, he insists, wiping at his red-rimmed eyes—so very much like a child. It's just allergies; he _isn’t_ crying. 

His shoulders shaking, too, Kyungsoo muses, also from allergies. The wet, shuddery way he inhales, also from allergies. 

“I know. You’re not crying,” Kyungsoo confirms, wrapping his arms around him, his own chest hitching with something tight and vulnerable and pained as Kris melts into him. “You have my email.” He squeezes, and Kris’ arms tremble. “I'm proud of you, and I’ll miss you.”

Jongin _is_ crying—really fucking hard, honestly—but isn’t ashamed to admit it. Neither for that matter is Lu Han, or Taekwoon, or Minseok, who wipes discreetly at the corner of his eyes, but doesn’t qualify his tears. 

“You have my email,” Kyungsoo repeats, hugging him last as the others stumble towards the bus, and Minseok nods, wraps a strong arm around his waist, presses his face into his chest just briefly. Kyungsoo speaks lower. “We can—can talk about...if you want to. We can talk about that, too.”

Minseok nods as he wipes at his teary, glimmering eyelashes with the back of his fist. 

 

All traces of the campers are gone by 5 pm that night, and Kyungsoo feels painfully alone in their—his cabin, the lobby, the mess hall at dinner that night. There are too many empty spots, the table too quiet, and he feels it like a missing tooth, the phantom of ache of something torn away. 

He squares his shoulders to try to fill in the distinct emptiness at his sides, 

Jongdae doesn’t attempt to meet his eyes this time. Just sits there silent and solemn, listless and sad, too as he stirs his neon orange macaroni and cheese. 

Kyungsoo has the impression, vague and half-formed, that maybe Jongdae wants him to speak first. 

He braves a glance—the corner of Jongdae’s mouth—and remembers how it felt dragging over his throat, his jaw, the lobe of his ear, dragging there in a delicious, dark, dark promise of all the things he could do. He wanted to do. 

Kyungsoo swallows, the words—half-formed and insecure, thick in his throat. “I—you, yesterday—”

Jongdae looks up at that, his lips part and it vaguely resembles his face when he comes. Kyungsoo swallows again, thick and hot. “That was…”

Jongdae blinks up at him, something guarded in his eyes. He isn’t going to speak first, Kyungsoo realizes, and he hates him for it. 

Kyungsoo squeezes his hands into fists, drops his gaze to them instead. “I liked it,” he says. “Like you,” he adds. 

Jongdae exhales, but Kyungsoo is too busy watching his hands to meet his eyes, interpret what it means. 

“There’s a—there’s a really nice 50’s diner around here,” Kyungsoo continues. “They—they have this jukebox. It has “Unchained Melody” and a lot of Motown stuff. Stevie Wonder, too. The Temptations, the Drifters, classics. It only costs a quarter to play music. The burgers are great, too. It’s only a 15 minute walk from the bus stop. And it’s a good place.” He pauses, inhales, exhales, allows himself one glance upwards. And Jongdae is biting his lip, waiting for him to continue. “Would you—like to go with me?”

“As a date?” Jongdae finally says. 

And Kyungsoo nods. “As a date. You and me. On a date.” 

He braves another glance upwards. And Jongdae is smiling, but shy and soft like he had the night of his performance, biting his lower lip as he glances at Kyungsoo through his dark, heavy eyelashes. Not sharp, not cutting, not bold. Something tight and warm twists in Kyungsoo’s chest. 

Kyungsoo smiles back, just as hesitant. “Is that a yes?” 

Jongdae nods, hesitates, reaches out to touch his hand, and Kyungsoo likes the weight of it on his skin.


End file.
